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EBONY 
FLAME 

VINCENT 
STARRETT 




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CHICAGO 



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Copyright, 1922 

Covici-McGee 

Chicago 






Three hundred and fifty copies of this book 
have been printed, of which this is 



Number...\5.Y... 



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CU69286*i:V 



Created by 

Printing Service 

Company 



Chicago 



ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

For courteous permission to reprint my far-scattered 
verses, a number of which have appeared over pseudo- 
nyms, I am grateful to many editors. Particular acknow- 
ledgment is made to the Bookman, the Smart Set, the 
Midland, the International, the Reviewer, the Double 
Dealer, the Magnificat, the Freeman, All's Well, Way- 
side Tales, the Chicago Evening Post and the Bookfellows.. 

V.S. 



To the W. G. A. 
L. M. S. 
B. J. S. 



CONTENTS 



A Hymn of Hate .... 66 

Air de Grief 26 

Amanuensis 40 

Ambition 11 

A Mood 47 

An Evening in November . 50 

An Iron Dog 8 

Apology to Browning . . 31 

A Rondeau of Sonnets . . 30 
At the Birthplace of a Dead 

Poet 35 

At the State Fair ... 74 

Bed 71 

Booby Prize 52 

Bridge 63 

Butterflies of Uganda . . 17 

Changeling 14 

Crescent Moon .... 10 

Chimneys 5 

Doxology to a Good Citizen 43 

Dreamer 18 

Ebony Flame 1 

Encounter 15 

Exercise for Left Hand . . 16 

Flotsam 25 

Footnote 73 

Footsteps of Fear ... 54 

God's Riding 19 

Harlequin (Theodore de Ban- 

ville) 64 

Hie Jacet 39 

Hieroglyphics 13 

House 21 

In a Fair Garden ... 28 

Laughter 49 

La Vie Litteraire .... 75 

Literary Note 32 

Loneliness 48 



Lyric 72 

Mavis 2 

Memorial Day .... 59 

Michael 37 

My Lord's Motoring ... 53 

Nasturtium 45 

Nocturne (Op. 1) . . . 51 

Nocturne (Op. 2) . . . 67 

On a Lady 70 

Omen 61 

Palimpsest 34 

Pan 29 

Panhandler 69 

Panorama from an "L" Train 6 

Pan Pipes 4 

Paradox 9 

Picture 20 

Pierrot the Urchin (Paul 

Verlaine) 57 

Poet as Peasant .... 23 

Poetry 55 

Possession 24 

Rain 33 

Retrospect 42 

Return 22 

Revelation 46 

Self-Slain 38 

Silver Poplar 41 

Sirenica 44 

Spring Song 60 

To One Unknown ... 68 

Train Wreck 12 

Two A. M 62 

Two Horsemen .... 36 

Uncaptive 56 

Veritas Praevalebit! ... 7 

Vermilion Square ... 27 



Ebony Flame 



EBONY FLAME 

Now, if you do not like the thoughts I think, 
Blame him who dwells within my well of ink: 
A wicked genie, with an evil eye . . . 
Who meets his gaze must either write or die. 

And, if you do not like the way I write, 
Remember that 'tis cousin to the night. 
To darkness (I, a simple messenger). 
When only does my dark companion stir. 

But, if this black connection you admire. 
Here is my hand, your chair beside the fire. 
Look! As I poise a pen and cry his name . . 
Out of the pit, a tongue of ebon flame! 



Ebony Flame 



MAVIS 

I shall call my daughter Mavis 
When, if ever, I have a daughter; 
That is a sweet and happy name, 
And I have loved it long and well. 
I am so pleased by the name of Mavis 
That I would give something very valuable — 
A bracelet, or a string of emeralds. 
Or a rare first edition of George Moore — 
To anyone who would conjure me a daughter named 
Mavis. 

I would teach her the splendor of her name, 

So that she would pronounce it as I wished, 

With just that shade of tenderness 

And just that shade of triumph. 

Early in the morning I would call her, "Mavis!" 

And then at intervals throughout the day 

Until at dark I said, "Good night, my Mavis!" 

And when she lay in slumber I would whisper 

"Mavis" until I, too, had fallen asleep, 

Lulled by the magic syllables of "Mavis." 

If she were here to-day, 

Already grown, and lovely as a rainbow, 

I should walk with her in the sunny streets, 

She leaning upon my arm and brightly smiling. 

And I should call her "Mavis . . . Mavis . . . Mavis." 

So that all them that passed 

Would marvel at the wonder of her name. 



Ebony Flame 



And envy me, gray-haired and proudly parental, 
Beside that miracle of nomenclature. 

She would perhaps dislike the name 
After the long years of my adoration. 
And tire of being called without a purpose 
Other than to allow my voice its pleasure; 
She would wish that her name were anything but Mavis- 
Edith, or Grace, or Katherine, or Mary; 
But I should reward her with a thousand presents 
Labeled with little cards, "With love to Mavis," 
So that I might find pleasure new and fragrant 
Writing down "Mavis" for my lovely daughter. 

Maker of lovely things, custodian of all wisdom. 

Give me a daughter 

That I may call her Mavis! 



Ebony Flame 



PAN PIPES 

The bank which in my wanderings 
Sometimes I chance to pass, 
Has handsome crystal chandeliers 
And doors of polished brass . . . 

once I had a copper cent; 

1 didn't have it long. 

I spent my penny for a pipe 
And piped a little song. 

And many pass with eager tread 
Into the banker's place, 
And drop their dollars in his box, 
With shining eyes and face . . . 

O once I piped a little song 
For tired little men: 
But still they put tJieir dollars in 
And take them out again. 



Ebony Flame 



CHIMNEYS 



My window looks across a field 

Of leaping chimney-stalagmites; 
And some by others are concealed, 

And some arise to splendid heights; 
And over every house and tree 

There hangs a gas barrage of coke; 
But one small stack blows up to me 

A wistful question-mark of smoke. 

I cannot see the folks who light 

The fires beneath this masque of flues; 
Their deeds by day, their acts of night, 

Nor what the brand of coke they use; 
But from a window just below 

One little stack, most every day 
There looks a girl I do not know 

Who quickly turns her head away. 



Ebony Flame 



PANORAMA FROM AN "L" TRAIN 

Two sudden feet project beyond a sill; 

A whift of factory pickles fills the air; 
Madeline's mother summons, fiercely shrill; 

In a back window Susan dries her hair. 
Crooning, a child hangs from a balcony: 

Now, in a panic, it is snatched within. 
And a quick flash of startled lingerie 

Conjures a passing, backward-glancing grin. 

A fog of smoke drifts upward from a train 

Roaring beneath; a sparrow swears and scolds. 
Needle-like cinders tap upon the pane . . . 

"Dr. Tarr's Honey Bothers Coughs and Colds!" 
The black belt — shabby houses, row on row — 

Its second stories level with the eye. 
Wheels darkly past, and in a yard below 

A nigger mammy hangs white clothes to dry. 



Ebony Flame 



VERITAS PRAEVALEBIT! 

The glory that was Vansittart 

Lies underneath a ton of sod. 
There were no secrets to impart 

When he stepped off to meet his God. 
The whole town knew his history, 

And some were glad and others lied; 
But only little Kitty Cree 

Knew why he wept before he died. 

The splendor that was Kitty Cree 

A tarnished memory became 
When Vansittart's diablerie 

Was but a jest-inducing name. 
Her suicide set tongues a-tick; 

They wagged like pendulums about her, 
And said with pious rhetoric 

There always had been cause to doubt her. 



Ebony Flame 



AN IRON DOG 

In Memory Street, an iron dog 
Stands guard upon a rusted lawn: 
He looms up through a shifting fog 
Like leaping conscience in the dawn; 
But why he stands, and what he guards, 
The old policeman does not know, 
Though other dogs from other yards 
Smile wisely as they come and go. 

When sunlight streams about the place, 
The boys who make the present crowd 
Ride on his back, and slap his face, 
And play his bark is fierce and loud; 
But in the rain or in the fog 
He seems to listen and to wait. 
He is a very faithful dog . . . 
And there are scratches on my gate! 



Ebony Flame 



PARADOX 



My thoughts to-night are lone and far; 
One rang against a distant star. 
I thought the star plunged to the sea, 
And felt the waves rush over me. 

Then one who fished with silken net 
Drew forth the star, all shining wet. 
And flung it swiftly to the sky; 
And, lo! the fisherman was I. 

So, thoughts are strange, and life is queer. 
And stars are often very near; 
And fishermen with nets of dream 
Snare more than pebbles in the stream. 



10 Ebony Flame 



CRESCENT MOON 

The sight, I think, is more than odd . . 
Outside the roadhouse kept by God 
The lounging stars, with youthful din, 
Shout down the banqueting within, 
And with their socialistic roar 
Persuade the Landlord to the door. 

The stars with mocking laughter fly 
Across the prairies of the sky, 
While after the vexatious gang 
God hurls a silver boomerang . . . 
I hope it will not turn and strike 
A kind old Gentleman I like. 



Ebony Flame 11 



AMBITION 

Then to be dead on plains of sonant glory! — 
To kneel, myself beside, with strangled breath; 

To bear away the litter — spread the story — 
And cry above the bier that shining death! 

Mutely to stand, a multitude of mourners, 
Head bared, with somber eyes upon the road. 

Where, flag-draped, past the deeply-breathing corners, 
Slowly I pass to my strait, dim abode. 

To be the banner's boast, the bugle's sorrow; 

The volley o'er the mounded earth, the tread 
Of marching feet; the silence of the morrow, 

When, with a shock, I read that I am dead. 

To be the quill that lusters famous pages, 

The hand that drives the pen, the eyes that see 

The worship and the wonder of the ages . . . 
To be the grief, the joy, the mystery! 



12 Ebony Flame 



TRAIN WRECK 

Around me were the tortured masks of men. 
The torn, sad shapes of women whose low cries 
Struck terribly into the heart . . . Again 
I shuddered, and with swift and fearful eyes 
Sought that familiar face I feared to find; 
Then cried out as, unharmed, I saw her kneel 
With wet, sweet face, now agonized and lined. 
Beside a broken form whose mute appeal 
Seemed somehow antecedently to be 
Part of the deepest thought and soul of me. 

But, as I would have hurried to her side 

With quick assurance, eager arms apart, 

A kindly hand persuaded me to bide 

A moment, and a voice that stilled my heart 

Spoke words of old affection, low and sweet; 

And he, my long-wept friend, was strangely near, 

Wbo with a little smile restrained my feet. 

Saying, "Dear fellow, wait! She cannot hear!" 

"Roger!" I cried in terror, "you are dead!" 

His fine smile held my eyes . . . "And you?" he said. 



Ebony Flame 13 



HIEROGLYPHICS 

The way that smoke twists upward in the sky. 

The form a cloud takes, slowly drifting by, 

The dimness hanging over distant hills, 

The shapes of snowflakes on the window sills; 

The haunting faces flowers lift at dawn. 

The furtive tears I find upon my lawn . . . 

Little, familiar things in alien guise 

That overwhelm with breathless, swift surmise. 

The song a kettle sings upon the fire. 

The solemn finger of a sudden spire. 

The drone of bees and water, faintly heard, 

The silver query of a secret bird; 

The gaze of friendly beasts, a curious shell. 

The second echo of a far-off bell . . . 

Tremendous trifles! Bell and wing and glow! 

What do they mean? Sometimes I almost know. 



14 Ebony Flame 



CHANGELING 

The gallows tree is straight and tall 
Save for the jutting single limb . . . 
And from a spot across the road 
I watched the tortured legs of him 
Who dangled there . . . 

The hangman laughed 

So merry was the sight withal. 

The hangman's daughter, standing near, 

Was lovely as a waterfall. 

Her yellow hair streamed over her; 

Her symmetry was starkly limned . . . 

I loathed and loved her, and it seemed 

Her scarlet roses glowed and dimmed 

As my wild eyes upon her fed. 

Her glance was free and bold, I thought . . . 

Our tryst was secret, when the dark 

Had fallen, where the corpse hung taut 

In the red moon . . . 

The cursed babe 

Was hideous as Hell, and we 
Shrieked as we knew the twisted face 
Of him who decked the gallows tree. 



Ebony Flame 15 



ENCOUNTER 

Along the dead white boulevards of Time, 
Littered with dying hopes and grinning fears, 
I thought I saw my Past stalk forth one day 
Upon adventure bent . . . and as it trod the years 
A smile of exquisite bitterness sat upon 
The cynic lips, and a low laugh maliciously 
Taunted the shattered dreams along the way, 
Erstwhile a part of its own ecstasy . . . 

And then a-down the months the other way. 

Stepping from misty darkness into light, 

A fearsome figure strode ... I saw my Future stand 

Upon the dim frontier of coming night. 

With glittering eyes . . . And that first traveler 

Who scornfully the charnel way had trod. 

Grew limp before the menace of its gaze 

And fell to shrieking for a spurned God. 



25 Ebony Flame 



EXERCISE FOR LEFT HAND 

Never rides a bark to shore 
Fair as at sea, 
Nor ever shines a sail 
White as across blue water. 

Never blooms a rose so red 
As that caressed 
And idly thrown away 
One knows not where. 

Nor ever comes a day 
Happy as one sweet other; 
Nor love 
Fragrant as love long past. . . 

Black barks in harbor. 
Silver sails close furled. 
Breath of dead roses 
Stealing my strength away! 

.... Long vanished day! 

Love, 

That sweetest love should always be 

The love of yesterday! 



Ebony Flame 17 



BUTTERFLIES OF UGANDA 

Butterflies of Africa: drifting clouds of blue: 

Clouds of white and yellow drift: carnival of reds: 

Sunset flashes at the noon: shining fields of dew: 
Snowflakes stung to ecstasy: floating tulip beds! 

Mardi Gras of loveliness: brilliant masquerade: 
Wheeling, reeling companies of Lilliput hussars; 

Blue and white the canopy, green the velvet shade. . . 
In the night of wonderment, are you silver stars? 



18 Ebony Flame 



DREAMER 

He was dismayed by life's harsh waking view; 

Only in dreams he fomid escape from dread; 
And so he laid him down to sleep, and drew 

The coverlet of water o'er his head. 

Then, as he slept, a murmur fled away: 

"Genius!" they whispered, wishing he might rise 

And place upon his brow the wreath of bay. . . 
Poor dreamer, with the dead, clairvoyant eyes! 



Ebony Flame 19 



GOD'S RIDING 

By night, with flogging whip He rides the breeze, 
And dreadful hoofs make thunder in the hills. 

The servile grasses and the tortured trees 

Bow down and tremble where His trumpet shrills. 

Again He rides, and where His banners run 
Gay flowers quicken in the trampled sod. 

Earth leaps to beauty neath the goading sun, 
The pricking rowel on the heel of God. 



20 Ebony Flame 



PICTURE 

Brown for the autumn leaves, 

Green for the tree; 
White for the flying sail, 

Blue for the sea. 

Gray for the solemn priest, 

Red for the lass; 
Black for the silent boy 

Dead in the grass. 



Ebony Flame 21 



HOUSE 

The little house across the way 

Conceals some dreadful mystery. 
Its green-fringed eyes, day after day, 

Stare at my windows fearfully. 
The door that is its mouth, it seems, 

Shrieks mutely of an evil deed. 
I cannot still the voiceless screams . . . 

Why do the drooping willows bleed? 



22 Ebony Flame 



RETURN 

In rooms long stranger to my tread 

My soul knelt down and wept; 
The gray walls whispered of the dead, 

The sad-eyed windows slept; 
And memories of perished years 

Were all that bade me stay . . . 
And those I kissed, with sudden tears, 

And those I bore away. 



Ebony Flame 23 



POET AS PEASANT 

Miriam is Mary now, 

Muriel is Jane, 
And I make my lyric bow 

In another vein. 

I have hired a little place 
Out beyond the town; 

I am done with any face 
Not of country brown. 

I have leased a Thomas cat 
And a mottled cow; 

I shall wear a ragged hat 
And be happy now. 

I shall write a little verse 
Every summer day ; 

Listen to the birds rehearse. 
Merrier than they. 

Anthea shall Alice be; 

Beatrice is Sue — 
Oh, remember, Lalage, 

All of these are you! 



24 Ebony Flame 



POSSESSION 

You who belong to another, 

And are mine; 

You who will wear another's name 

Where all may see, 

And mine, like a scarlet letter, 

Beneath your bodice — 

After the blasphemy of words is over. 

And sudden laughter shrills. 

Many will think to read your happiness 

On your gay lips — 

Poor, gay, sad, lying lips! — 

And he who will possess your fragrant husk 

Will marvel at the strangeness of your eyes . . . 

But you — 

You who belong to another, and are mine — 

You will read loathing in your mirror; 

Scorn 

In the gray eyes that give you stare for stare; 

Hate 

In the quick heart that, spite of you, was true. 

You will recall a day of scarlet splendor, 

And a cold flame will burn with icy breath. 

And you will come to me. 

Dry-eyed, 

Through the sobbing night. 



Ebony Flame 25 



FLOTSAM 

Who cares for these slight songs I sing? — this rhyme 

That hides a soul's unuttered ecstasy? 
And will my little raptures for a time 

Outlive their parent? Once upon the sea 
I saw a chip, wave-driven, breast the flood 

That greenly strove its insolence to submerge. 
And laughed to see the valiant fragment scud 

Before the fury of the water's urge. 

Its curious malformation made it seem 

A relic of some child's abandoned play, 
Far journied from the quaint, quiescent stream 

Where it was launched and sent upon its way. 
So it may be some song that I have sung 

Will voyage for a space, impenitent: 
If it but echo that I once was young. 

That once I lived and loved, I am content. 



26 Ebony Flame 



AIR DE GRIEF 

As a youth I longed to be 

Kindly, bearded, white, 
Spectacled and scholarly, 

Underneath a light 
Falling on a printed page 

Spread across my knee; 
In that placid picture, age 

Seemed quite fine to me. 

How the years have flickered by! 

Here is book and light; 
Here are spectacles, and my 

Hair is turning white. 
Beard alone has failed the scheme 

May it never start! 
In this triumph of my dream 

Age appals my heart! 



Ebony Flame 27 



VERMILLION SQUARE 

On summer nights Vermillion Square 

Is very brave and proud. 
A band performs, and everywhere 

The people push and crowd. 

In couples and in droves they pass, 

Or lie upon the ground. 
They trample down the Sunday grass 

And scatter peanuts 'round. 

But in this curious parade 

I never join — not I! 
I pick a cool place in the shade 

And watch myself go by. 



28 Ebony Flame 



IN A FAIR GARDEN 

In a fair garden, low beneath the moon, 
White Pierrot dreams of Pierrette's dainty shoon. 
No bigger than a roseleaf, and as fair, 
Nimble as poets' fancies, light as air. 
Dancing around the world to Pierrot's tune. 

How worn they seem! negligent buffoon, 
That, spendthrift, spends a golden afternoon 
In folly dreaming! Wake, for she is there 
In a fair garden. 

Ah, 'tis a sight to make a Bishop swoon! 
Bowered in roses drunk with fragrant June. , . 

See, she has crept into your blossom'd lair. 

Waken indeed. Friend, an you would not share 
Her kisses, or 'tis I that shall be soon 
In a fair garden! 



Ebony Flame 29 



PAN 

In a dim grotto of the wood, they said, 
Great Pan lies dead. . . 
And then they flew 

Laughing across the sand, but paused anew. 
Clad in white chastity, upon the brink — 
Shy fawns at drink, 
Half frightened by 

The murmuring treetops and the water's sigh — 
Viewing the wood with half-alarmed grimace 
For a strange face. 
The goat-eared Pan, 
They said, bravado-wise, is not a man. 
But a dead god, an antique legend sung 
To charm the young. . . 
And then the sea 

Robed them in living jewels, lavishly; 
Clasped his wet arms about them — young and slim- 
Drew them to him. 

Beware, Old Sea! 

Do you not fear Pan's maddened jealousy? 

Do you think, too, that Pan is dead and cold, 

Deep in the gold 

Dead leaves of fall, 

Leaving all this to you as seneschal? 

Long since you heard the cloven hoof resound 

Upon the ground. 

Since your pale glass 

Gave back his image. Ah, the years may pass 

But Pan lives yet, for love is more than death! 

Heard you a breath 

Hot in the wood 

Where in your youth a shaggy lover stood? 

Then not too far, old graybeard charlatan. 

For I am Pan! 



30 Ebony Flame 



A RONDEAU OF SONNETS 

(In Memory of Andrew Lang) 

What sonnet do you fancy? — if indeed 
You fancy any, now that verse is freed! 
Shall it be Swinburne, Aldrich, or divine 
Rossetti that I read you. Friend of Mine? — 
Or for what other shall you intercede? 

So be it! Let us sate our sonnet greed 
With him who satisfies that special need — 
With Andrew, eh? — And so, for auld Lang syne. 
What sonnet? 

Let us begin — and you, my friend, shall lead, 
And I shall follow on a second steed 
Borrowed from Villon or some other fine 
Old rascal. Voila! First a stoup of wine, 
Then plunge to any page you will, and read 
What's on it! 



Ebony Flame 31 



APOLOGY TO BROWNING 

For that my wisdom was small, 

For that my ego was big, 

Once I sneered bravely withal; 

Cried, for your verses — a fig! 

Thought that your thought was involved 

(Maybe it is — never mind; 

When it is puzzled and solved 

There is some substance behind) ; 

Thought that your muse was a clod, 

Heavy, and awkward, and dull; 

Thought that your prating of God 

Made me some kind of a gull. 

Well, I was young — very young; 

Fond of a dulcimer meter; 

Long as to hair and to tongue — 

Yes, I thought Tennyson sweeter. 

Not that you care in the least 

That I spoke of your rhyming as clowning !- 

But I, who came late to your feast, 

Am humbly a penitent. Browning. 



32 Ebony Flame 



LITERARY NOTE 

Books and cooks are closely wed 
In my fond and foolish head. 
Brain and belly are befriended 
By those dispensations splendid — 
Yea, my heart and soul are joyed 
When I hear such words employed. 

I should like a restaurant 
Up against some bookish haunt, 
That in either I might find 
Food to satisfy the mind — 
Solid fowl and flesh, or airy 
Salad for the solitary. 



Ebony Flame 33 



RAIN 

It wonders me that I should love the rain, 
The long swift rain that rivers in the street; 
That whispers stories sinister and sweet 

In the dull rhythms of its endless strain. 

Fiercely I breathe its ancient mystery, 

Now as it dirks the night with lambent gleams. 
And ever when the yellow sunlight streams 

Its antiphon mourns in the heart of me. 



34 Ebony Flame 



PALIMPSEST 

The canopy of blue and gold 
That roofed my morning years 

Is clouded with a mottled mould, 
And big with iron tears. 

There once upon a vellum sky 
Youth's eager hopes were spread. 

What critic hand has written high 
These symbols bleak and dread? 



Ebony Flame 35 



AT THE BIRTHPLACE OF A DEAD POET 

Still greens the grass upon the sod 
As when he tramped these country lanes, 
And where the orchards lift to God 
Their heavy fragrance after rains, 
Stand still the trees he loved and knew, 
The awkward fences that he climbed. . . 
The sky above is still as blue 
As when he learned it could be rhymed. 

I do not see him in the trees 

Nor by the runing river's brim; 

Such breathless humors, while they please, 

And would have been no trick for him. 

Are shut from me by many veils. 

I walk the ways he must have known, 

And try to fancy in the trails 

His footprints pressed beneath my own. 



36 Ebony Flame 



TWO HORSEMEN 

Life came riding up the vale 

On a yellow steed, 
Helmet off; his coat of mail 
Shining like a polished pail — 

Thus it was decreed. 
"Here's a penny for you, Lad. 
We are brothers! Are you glad?" 

This was Life, indeed! 

Death came riding up the lane 

On a sable steed, 
Visor down; his coat of chain 
Black as was his horse's mane — 

Thus it was decreed. 
"Here's your penny, Sir Disguise: 
You can not conceal your eyes!" 

This was Death, indeed — 

This was Life, indeed! 



Ebony Flame 37 



MICHAEL 

My lover's ship did not go down: 

It sailed into the setting sun. 
I watched across the sands from town 

Until the golden goal was won. 

Upon a sea of molten glass 

It sailed across the world's red rim; 

With spreading sails I saw it pass 
Into a glory none shall dim. 

Yet there are some that wring their hands 
And will not cease their doleful cries . . 

I look across the blazing sands 
And smile into my lover's eyes. 



38 Ebony Flame 



SELF-SLAIN 

He was come to the edge of the wood, 
And he paused on the quiet frontier. 

The darkness clung close like a hood, 
And there splashed in the silence a tear. . 

Down, down to the place where he stood 
Echoed starkly the footsteps of fear. 

He knelt in the dew, as to pray . . . 

And his riven frame pitched to the knoll; 
And a wisp of smoke floated away 

To what mystical, ultimate goal! 
There was no one to wonder or say 

If the darkness went out of his soul. 



Ebony Flame 39 



HIC JACET 

Here lies John Lorengood — a simple name, 
Unknown to history and to acclaim. 
The willows droop across his bed of earth 
In this quaint village where he had his birth. 
No clash of voices breaks upon his rest 
With futile praise. A bird has made its nest, 
And feeds its young, and sings, above his head, 
While he sleeps late — blest privilege of the dead. 

John Lorengood, perhaps your life was spent 
In this obscurity and this content. 
No bloody charge your awful glory weighs, 
No book the tumult of your soul betrays; 
Deserving much, you have deserved repose. 
And the recurrent tribute of a rose. . . 
I who with fatuous trust pursue the flame 
Falter before the grandeur of your fame. 



40 Ebony Flame 



AMANUENSIS 

What eager urge directs my thought 

And drives this stubborn pen? — 

Fills me with memories, wonder-fraught, 

Of clouds and trees and men; 

Torments me with a dream of fame 

Immortal and benign . . . ? 

O wondrous and consuming flame 

That marvels to be mine! 

Is it perhaps some deathless shade 

That whispers secret words 

Wherewith the world I might persuade 

And sing beyond the birds? 

that, when I have grasped his theme 

With sudden passioned cry, 

He should forsake that valiant dream 

And leave me — only I ! 



Ebony Flame 41 



SILVER POPLAR 

Nothing more lorn, more lone, more lovely is, 

I think, than this . . . 

A silver poplar lonely on a hill, 

The sun behind. The air at first is still, 

But a light whisper quickens, and a breeze 

Pushing through other and more distant trees, 

With faintly pattering, far off tapping drums 

And whipping banners comes; 

Rushes across the void . . . The crisped leaves 

Bend double as the foliate spendor heaves. 

An argent glory shimmers, quivers, dances, 

Till in the sunny flame of darting lances 

The foam of seas 

Sparkles in sunshine, and the mounting breeze 

Stirs the quick leaves to keening melody; 

A curious sorcery 

That whispers at the heart like distant play 

Of rippling water in a little bay. . . 

And then the swelling wind becomes a roar, 

And gaunt waves dash upon a rocky shore 

In a white smother, and at length subside 

Into the garrulous murmur of the tide. . . 

In the cool shadow of the hill I lie 
While the breeze palters by. 



42 Ebony Flame 



RETROSPECT 

An hour ago the lights were fey, 

And women moved with silken grace, 
And music made the maskers gay, 

And laughter eddied through the place. 
An hour ago! but all is gone: 

One figure only I recall — 
A girl with hair of ruddy dawn 

Who checked my garments in the hall. 

A lot of famous folk were there 

Who in my vision dim and fade. 
It was, I think, a brave affair — 

Perfume and powder, gold and braid! 
But now 'tis all a vague surmise: 

One presence only I recall — 
A girl with lovely, scornful eyes 

Who checked my garments in the hall. 



Ebony Flame 43 



DOXOLOGY TO A GOOD CITIZEN 

What shall we say of Avondale, 

But lately of our planet? — 
Save that he carried on a tale 

When someone else began it; 
Save that he voted nearly right 

On every proposition; 
Save that he stayed at home at night 

And held a fair position; 
Save that his fervor was derived 

From other people's thinking; 
Save that his seven children thrived 

And none inclined to drinking; 
Save that he played a steady hand 

At whist, and bowled not badly; 
Save that he loved his native land, 

His wife and babies madly; 
Save — 'Tis a simple, poignant tale. 

This slight suburban story: 
But, 0, from such as Avondale 

Deliverance, Saints in Glory! 



44 Ebony Flame 



SIRENICA 

Your eyes are pools of purple moonlit wine 
Across whose sweep gleam fiery flecks of gold: 

False beacons crying harbor unto mine. . . 
I drown within the madness that they hold. 

Your eyes are braziers of caressing fire, 

Consuming tongues of flagrant yellow flame. 

Pile high the fagots on my funeral pyre! 

The smoke of torment shall inscribe your name. 

Your eyes are daedal wishes. they gleam 
Now wistful-sweet, now passionately wise! 

Danger and death are in their burning dream: 
And yet . . . and yet . . . Heart of my Heart, your eyes . 



Ebony Flame 45 



NASTURTIUM 

Amber-maiden, sun-caressed, 

Dewy, nectar-brimmed. 
In such splendor are you dressed, 

In such glory limned . . . 
Are you something more than flower 
Nodding in your orient bower? 

What do you become at eve — 
In the langorous night? 

May a lover then achieve 
Favor in your sight? 

All life's rapture I would risk 

For your smile, dear odalisque! 

I shall leave the tear-faced rose 

To her buccaneers. 
Jilt the red-cheeked Jacqueminots 

Spite of all their tears. 
Amber-maiden, lovely flower, 
Pray you name the blissful hour! 



46 Ebony Flame 



REVELATION 

As out beyond the heedless, roaring town, 
In Crusoe wonder, threading forest ways, 
I walked, the lanes in ribald beauty swam, 
Drunk with desire, beneath an opal haze. 
The mysteries of pulsing root and branch. 
Of joyous hoof and wing, and odorous breeze. 
Charged with a tacit import seemed, and — mute — 
I listened to the trees. 

Then down a strange and yet familiar path, 
Borne upon heaving turf, in breathless thought 
I passed, where burning beauty shone about 
The things no hands for other hands had wrought. 
A secret whisper thrilled upon the air; 
Startled, I heard a flattered woodbird call ... 
And suddenly I fled away before 
The terror of it all! 



Ebony Flame 47 



A MOOD 

Outside the rain falls sullenly. The day 
Was never dreary as this day, it seems. 

Gay voices near me laugh the hours away; 
They find no time for melancholy dreams. 

What is it on my spirit seems to pall? — - 
Grim something that I cannot put away! 

I have no hurt, no sorrow to recall — - 
And yet — and yet how sorrowful the day! 



48 Ebony Flame 



LONELINESS 

The whistle of a train at night 

Sometimes seems more than heart can Lear. 

I do not see the rushing light 

Nor feel the hot exhaust of air; 

I only hear the distant tread 

Of wheels, and then that keening cry — 

But all the loneliness and dread 

Of life is in that long "Good bye!" 



Ebony Flame 49 



LAUGHTER 

Your laughter is a careless brook 

In sunshine speeding. 
Your laughter is a yellow book 

For furtive reading. 

Your laughter is an icy stream 

In which none dives. 
Your laughter is the slim bright gleam 

Of cruel knives. 

Your laughter is a child that runs 

With guileless prattle. 
Your laughter is the crash of guns 

In sudden battle. 

Your laughter is a spray of bells 

On Christmas morning. 
Your laughter is a gust of Hell's 

Unbridled scorning. 



50 Ebony Flame 



AN EVENING IN NOVEMBER 

Outside, the lashing, swirling rain, 

And a cold wind that cut the heart: 
But, 0, within, soft candles in the dusk. 

And a queer Oriental lantern, hung apart 
In a far corner, near the firelight glow, 

Over heaped pillows of a quaint design . . . 
And one beside me in the shouting silence. 

Looking with eyes of startled understanding into mine. 



Ebony Flame ^ 2r 



NOCTURNE (Op. 1) 

We called him something loud and free 
And tossed him through the door. 
The night received him patiently. 
As somewhat of a bore — 
He'd gone that way before. 

He left behind him on the bar 
And scattered 'round the place, 
A hat, a cuff, a chewed cigar. 
Some pieces of his face — 
And the disputed ace. 

He didn't mind our coltish play; 
He took it with a leer; 
But it was pitiful the way 
He whimpered for his ear — 
We'd dropped it in the beer! 



52 Ebony Flame 



BOOBY PRIZE 

It seems I trumped an ace — my partner's ace — 
And bid too high, and paid too great attention 
To airs and fingers in the fourth dimension. 

I should, it seems, have watched my partner's face. 

Her face — Ye Gods! Ah, well I won a prize: 
That painted kewpie on the mantel there! 
In it I see again the vapid stare 

Of that depraved old dromedary's eyes. 



Ebony Flame 53 



MY LORD'S MOTORING 

He was an arrogant cat, My Lord, 
Or ever he heard of Henry Ford. 
He sat in the windows, east and west, 
Amber eyes and a snow-white vest, 
Watching the silly children run, 
Staring haughtily at the sun: 
Nothing disturbed him in the least, 
Nor touched the pride of that stately beast. 

Then, on a day, we went to ride 
I in the wheel-seat, he beside. 
Never a move that advertised 
He was the slightest bit surprised; 
He sat up straight as a millionaire, 
A snob of snobs in a parlor chair — 
But once, when I missed a boy at play, 
I thought he winked in a knowing way. 



54 Ebony Flame 



FOOTSTEPS OF FEAR 

Who travels this cold road alone by night? 

Footsteps! They follow, follow, follow after! 
There is no human thing in mortal sight. . . 

Footsteps ! . . . and mocking laughter ! 

They echo in my brain, they slowly beat 

Upon my heart with careful, strange insistence. 

They whisper in the long deserted street . . . 
Laughter, across the distance! 

Why is the moon so cruel and so white? 

White is her shadow in the black street canyon. 
Footsteps that pace beside me. . . But the light 

Reveals no dark companion. 

Who travels thus beside me through the dark? 

The road is endless, and the day comes never. . 
Footsteps of fear, and I shall hear them— Hark! — 

For ever and for ever! 



Ebony Flame 55 



POETRY 

It is a little room, a secret room, 

Within a palace falling to decay. 
Wherein I tryst with one that was myself. . . 

And, 0! the world is more than life away! 

It is a little ship upon the sea, 

Bravely adrift, I know not whither blown. 
Nor where the low reef of the harbor lies . . . 

But a far bell calls, and I sail alone. 

It is a little gate beside a road, 

And strait the way to scornful eyes may seem, 
But who shall lift the latch and pass within 

May pluck the fruit of his unconquered dream. 



56 Ebony Flame 



UNCAPTIVE 

Whose eyes have looked on hidden things 
Nor hate nor walls have strength to bind; 

He journeys on an ageless quest, 
His voice is in the changing wind. 

They fettered steel about his soul, 

They put his body in a cell, 
But while a single cloud looked in 

His covert chamber all was well. 

Upon his wall the pontiff moon 
Shadowed the menace of his bars: 

Joyful, he breathed the strength of night, 
And walked among the laughing stars. 

Then shall they hurt us as they will, 
So that the secret glory gleams. 

For the captivity of life 

There is the recompense of dreams. 



Ebony Flame 57 



PIERROT THE URCHIN 

(Paul Verlaine) 

This is not Pierrot on the green — 
Vague Pierrot, sporting half unseen — 
'Tis Pierrot, Pierrot, Pierrot! 
Pierrot, the urchin, madcap he, 
Stripped of his mask and mimicry — 
Ah, Pierrot, Pierrot, Pierrot! 

Ahhough no bigger than a mite 
The rascal's eyes are all alight; 
With sparks of steel they're flaming. 
They dance with demon lights, it seems; 
They leap with sudden, scornful gleams 
For a gay poet's shaming. 

Lips red as woimds, whose scarlet pout 

Is slumberous luxury's redoubt; 

Face fair as lily's lining. 

And splendid although somewhat wan — 

Such face as loves to gaze upon 

The golden things and shining. 

Supple and lithe his girlish form, 
Voice soft and, like a woman's, warm; 
Mature his shape, though elfish. 
His thrilling tone, his raiment gay 
Proclaim a lover, seeking aye 
To sate each pleasure selfish. 



58 Ebony Flame 



Go, Brother — Comrade — where they teem, 
And play the devil, seek thy dream 
Where'er thou wilt — thy Pierrettes — 
And be the soul unscrupulous, 
High, noble, lively, infamous. 
Of these our simple spirits. 

Grow, Scapegrace, others are not shy! 
Thy bitter riches multiply; 
Enhance thy reputation. 
Thy virtue, and thy people's love! 
Thy grimace is the symbol of 
Our simple congregation. 



Ebony Flame 59 



MEMORIAL DAY 

Drums in the city street 

Monotonously rolling, 

And marching feet 

In the measures of the beat, 

And flags. 

And far bells tolling. . . 

Sabbath in the warm breeze; 

By the graves, weeping. 

Birds on the lilied air, 

Caroling, leaping. 

And sudden blossoms where 

Beneath the trees 

The dead are sleeping. 

Bugles in the twilight 

Piercingly calling. 

Bugle echoes, clear and far, 

Falling... falling... 

(From what bright star? 

And Whose tears do they seem 

To them that dream?) 

And then, 

Again 

The muffled drum, the tread of feet. 

And hearts that beat 

With long thoughts to the throbbing drum. 

The sobbing drum, 

The drum . . . 

Drum. . . 

Drum . . . 



60 Ebony Flame 



SPRING SONG 

Now crack with mirth your wintry lips, 
And loose your limbs to gladness, 

And hang a garland on your hips 
And leap with pleasant madness. 

Now pitch away your book of dreams 
And hark the highway calling: 

Again the minnesinger streams 
Down pebbled trails are brawling. 

Now songbirds blossom on the haw — 

Shall not the poet sing 
When trees o'er naked fingers draw 

The glad green gloves of spring? 



Ebony Flame 61 



OMEN 

Apes in scarlet petticoats 

Dance a rigadoon — 
Pennies for the broken notes 

Of a murdered tune. 

Grind your organ, Angelo, 
For the tickled throng; 

Summer's skipping down the row- 
Hey! Another song! 



62 Ebony Flame 



TWO A. M. 

The clock hands creep around the clock. . . 
A milk cart rattles down the block. . . 
And once more silence flutters down 
Darkly upon the sleeping town. 

My window faces to the breeze. . . 
The secret voices of the trees, 
Half -heard, half -felt, cry in my ears. . . 
My heart is strange with eager fears. 

To-morrow, I shall grieve that I 

Sat up so late to watch the sky; 

But now . . . Who knows what hidden sight 

May be revealed to me this night! 



Ebony Flame 63 



BRIDGE 

The bridge is long and white and fine, 
And lined with rails of polished brass; 

At night its carbon clusters shine 

On laughing throngs that pass and pass. 

Beneath, the singing water flows 
As smoothly as a pictured stream, 

Dappled with yellow gleams and glows 
Like sprites that vanish in a dream. 

Only within my furtive nook 

Does shadow shield from kind alarms . . 
Ay, chuckle, Water, while they look! 

I shall sleep soundly in your arms. 



64 Ebony Flame 



HARLEQUIN 
(Theodore de Banville) 

From the cat he steals his grace, 
From the dog his whiskered face. 
He has taken from the king 
Of his purple robe a string; 
From the Jew a bit of yellow; 
From the Spring this lawless fellow 
Has purloined a bit of green, 
And the whole, with solemn mien, 
He has made a garment gay 
To wear upon a holiday. 

Roimd his waist a scarlet belt 
Holds a slapstick, often felt. 
On his feet are scarlet shoon; 
With quicksilver — gay buffoon! — 
They are lined; and how they prance 
In some ancient, pagan dance! 
At his hat I laugh aloud: 
Did he carve it from a cloud? 
He's an organ grinder's ape — 
\e.i how lithe his graceful shape I 

Thus, attended like a king, 
Skillful as a Jew; like Spring 
Come with April's flowering bloom. 
Hums he like a busy loom 
Through the cities and the fields, 
Seeking all that Springtime yields: 
Followed by coy Columbine, 



Ebony Flame 65 



Amorous and half-divine, 

Who, the more the monster beats, 

More adores his knavish feats. 

With what hideous flutterings, 

Like a moth with painted wings. 

Now he clasps her fluid charms 

In his careless, cruel arms — 

Courts, cares=es, entertains 

In conquered and enchanted lanes, 

^'iliere Xature sleeps the siunmer through 

And lesser gods make rendez\ous — 

Till, tired of kissing, with a shrug 

He offers Toby's ugly mug — 

C'est Harlequin! 



66 Ebony Flame 



A HYMN OF HATE 

Beside Francesca Brown, my wife's dear friend, 

lago was a big, good-natured slob; 
And if some unofficial vengeance end 

Her vile career, 'twill be a splendid job. 
And I shall caper happily what time 

They tell me she has fled to occult shores. 
Who never let the sun to zenith climb 

Until her tongue had probed a dozen sores. 

Beside Francesca Brown of fair repute, 

Who lives a blameless life, and has a class, 
"Yond Cassius" was a blundering recruit, 

And Ballantrae a simple, witless ass. 
Muse of Malice, give me power to pen 

For decent ears and eyes the thoughts I hold 
Concerning one Francesca Brown, and then 

The nerve to tell her what she should be told ! 



fin 

Ebony Flame ■ il 



NOCTURNE (Op. 2) 

It is a very strange and curious thing 

To see a person hanging by his thumbs, 
While round about him, in a narrow ring, 

March little demons with exulting drums. 
It is an awe-inspiring sight to see 

One's oldest friend turn slowly inside out. 
Then hang his watch upon a friendly tree, 

And greet his organisms with a shout. 

It is a shocking thing to watch a man 

Reduce himself to gravy, in a pot; - 
Then pour himself into a cooling pan 

And weep because the mixture is too hot. 
It is a solemn thing to play with verse, 

And rhyme with shadows purple, green and white: 
The wonder is it isn't often worse. 

After such dreaming as I did last night. 



68 Ebony Flame 



TO ONE UNKNOWN 

Once as I passed you in the street 
You turned away your head, 

And looked into the windows of 
A barber shop instead. 

I cannot think in such a place 
You found what you would seek. 

Oh, was it that you liked me, Girl, 
And feared that I would speak? 



Ebony Flame 69 



PANHANDLER 

Buchanan talked in sums of large importance, 
His figures dazzled as his schemes amazed; 

The brilliant sense and flow of his exhortance 
Conquered, and left one feeling slightly dazed. 

Millions for him were easy computations; 

From oil to ermine ranged his arguments — 
But always, at the end of his orations, 

One found Buchanan needed fifty cents. 



§ 



70 Ebony Flame 



ON A LADY 

Poets her conquering beauty tell in rhyme, 
And Princes polish lyrics to her grace; 

Bishops are writing ballads — even Time 
Himself has written lines upon her face. 



Ebony Flame 71 



BED 

This is the very same bed; 

In it my grandfather died. 
Well I recall what he said: 
"This is the very same bed ..." 
Just that— and next moment was dead. 

Now I am here with my bride. 
This is the very same bed; 

In it my grandfather died! 



72 Ebony Flame 



LYRIC 

Lady, if you speak the truth 
With your eyes of granite, 

Little love and less of ruth 
Holds you to our planet. 

Yet the pressure of a knee 
Mutes the strings of reason. 

Soul, if this he treachery, 
Make the most of treason! 



^ 



Ebony Flame 73 



FOOTNOTE 

Thus the prince in the fairy tale tarried: 

There was singing of harps and bright laughter; 

And thus were the true lovers married, 
And happily lived... ever after? 

Ever after! So endeth the pages 

As writ by the great versifiers. 
"There were giants," they said, "in those ages," 

Ay, giants — and subsidized liars! 



74 Ebony Flame 



AT THE STATE FAIR 

Over the heads of the yokels, 

High on a swaying wire, 

Mademoiselle Lepelletier 

Dances and slithers and slides. 

Slim her ankles, and round her calves 

Under her foaming laces. 

And the rustics gaze with wild desire 

And feast their Puritan eyes. 

But one goes home to his light o' love 

And eyes her with disapproval, 

And tries to imagine that dreadful girth 

High on a swaying wire! 



Ebony Flame 75 



LA VIE LITTERAIRE 

Then, 

For the last time he dipped his pen 

Into his heart, and wrote 

"The End." It seemed a bugle note 

Cried as he moved his hand across the sheet, 

And something swelled and rattled in his throat. 

Ah, it was sweet! 

Yet in his heart the pain still lingered on, 

A dull gray memory of agony, 

Of turmoil and of tortured reverie 

Often from dark to dawn; 

The bittersweet of truth revealed, confessed , . . 

It was himself he wrote into the book; 

The wounds were his, they raged yet in his breast. 

He was the victim of the rack and cross. 

The torn, bruised thing he painted; his the loss, 

The gain, the doubt, the joy, the sorrowing. 

Let them but look 

Into his pages who had eyes to see 

And hearts to understand and sympathize. 

And they would know his secret agony. 

His fears, his courage, and his suffering. 

These were not lies. 

Decked out with tinsel trimmings and fine lace, 

To while away an hour of idleness, 



76 Ebony Flame 



But the dark record of a great disgrace, 
And victory born of a great distress . . . 

And so the book went forth into the world, 

Hurled 

Into the maelstrom of contending wit 

And specious fancy, lone as any leaf 

Blown down the tides of commerce; and in time 

He read what they who criticized had writ. . . 

One said it was a litany of grief, 

And gibbered of its melancholy splendor; 

One from the paper jacket stole a phrase. 

Agreeing that the love scenes were most tender. 

Whilst one who thought to praise, 

Although annoyed, 

Spoke learnedly about himself and Freud, 

And turned a clever rhyme. . . 

A charlatan of brilliant reputation 

Declared the fellow lacked imagination. 






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